On The Line
by rain988cloud
Summary: "Peter, stay on the phone. Please don't hang up this time. You don't have to talk, but I need you to listen."
1. The Phone Call

"Peter, stay on the phone. Please don't hang up this time. You don't have to talk, but I need you to listen. I know how important this promise is for you. I have spent my whole life trying not to disappoint my father, following his advice and doing my best to make him proud of me. I understand that, from your perspective, this situation is lose-lose. If you break this promise that you made you will feel guilty, and you will always be worried that something will happen to me. God forbid something actually did happen, because I know would beat yourself up about it even though you shouldn't. And this—what we're doing right now—this being apart...it hurts, too. It definitely hurts me and I'd like to think that you care enough about me that you feel the same way. Because, Peter, you can't continue to give and give and give and then go home and be happy alone.

"And don't try to deny it, I know what you would say—that you have your aunt so you're not technically alone, but we both know it's not the same. She loves you so much, but she doesn't share your secret and she's still grieving the loss of your uncle. You think because the potential for danger around you is so great that no one should have to experience it with you. But have you ever considered that what you are doing as Spi...well, you know...is so noble that it would be selfish to not let someone else share in the joy that comes from helping others? That you are such a good person that it is almost cruel to prevent people from being around you? You always put yourself down, but I'm not sure you realize how lucky I felt to be a part of your life. How being with you and sharing in this crazy situation with Dr. Connors made my life seem more important. Yes, it was scary, but it was real. You know just as much as I do that scientific research is an amazing field of study, but that the payoff—making some new discovery or finding a breakthrough—it takes ages and looks minuscule in the scheme of things.

"Anyway, I don't even know if you're listening anymore. I'm probably talking to air at this point. But if you are there I want you to know that I understand. You're in an impossible situation, and if I pressure you to break your promise and something bad happens, you'll blame yourself and that can't happen. So, as much as I think you should take my wishes into consideration and allow me to make my own decisions about whether or not you are a danger to me, I will abide by whatever decision you choose to make."

Gwen sighs deeply.

"Look, I...I can't believe I'm saying this, but... you need someone in your life. You have lived so much of it being in the background that you feel like you should be able to cope alone, but you can't anymore. Not with the weight of all that you do. So, as much as it hurts me to say this, if you won't ever be able to break the promise you made to my father and let me back into your life, then...," the lump in her throat has finally overtaken her voice and when she forces the words out her voice breaks, "then you need to find someone else. Someone who will take care of you when you're hurt and be there for you when the world doesn't understand. Someone with whom there's no promise keeping you from being together." Gwen runs the back of her hand across her eyes, and returns it, dampened, to her lap, bunching the cotton of her dress in her fist.

"But as much as I truly do mean that, Peter, I hope with all my heart that it won't happen. Because the truth is... I want that person to be me. I miss you and I want to see you. I'm think about you all the time—every day—and I'm never going to stop worrying about you. So, please, if you won't let me be with you, just let me know you're okay. And if you can't talk to me, then...I don't know, write me a letter, or an email, or send me a text, just...something. Please..."

There is nothing but silence on the other end of the line. Gwen strains her ears, hoping beyond anything that he will give some indication that he understands. That he wants her, too.

"Peter? Are...are you there?"

A sound comes through the phone – a ragged breath, possibly, or maybe just static from the other end of the line.

It disconnects.


	2. The Decision

It would be easier if he didn't look so miserable and act so nice.

And not nice like the way a friend comforts you after the death of your father, like Flash had tried to do with an awkward, one-armed side hug, or in the way Gwen treats new interns at OsCorp, kindly taking them under her wing and making sure they have everything that they need. No, this was the kind of 'nice' that could make your blood boil—distant, collected, overly polite. It felt almost condescending, though she knew that wasn't the intention.

Gwen was constantly reminding herself that _she_ was the one who had the right to be upset, that if anyone should be pushing the other away it should be her. But no, that wasn't right either. It wasn't Peter's fault that he was 'doing the right thing' and listening to her father's dying words. In fact, that just made him a better person. Which was infuriating. She didn't need another reason to dwell on him—she already did that enough.

She had always assumed that she would fall for someone more like herself. Neat and clean appearance, driven, maybe someone entrepreneurial, or on the advanced track to Stanford, or at least the kind of guy who was heavily involved in honors societies and extracurricular activities.

_Well_, she thought wryly as she dried off from her morning shower, _I guess you **could** say that he takes part in 'extracurricular activities'...in a manner of speaking_. The kind that makes parkour look like child's play and requires extensive knowledge of how to disarm 6'3" tall criminals of hidden weaponry while in free fall.

She had never expected to want a disheveled skateboarder who had a bit of an attitude problem when it came to authority. One who was brilliantly lazy in school, but, when faced with a task that interested him, became engrossed to the point where he was positively manic, energy coming off of his body in waves as he scribbled furiously in notebooks and tinkered with technology late into the night. Yes, she was passionate about science, but his enthusiasm about the things that he cared about was infectious.

And he used to care about her.

_He still does_, she reminds herself, though it was harder to continue feeling that way when Peter avoided her as though they had been through some kind of hideous breakup. The mind can play tricks on a person's self esteem, and Gwen fought to reassure herself that she still mattered to him. That's why she had caved and called him one last time. It had seemed really critical at the time as she sat on the fire escape unable to sleep, blanketed by an inky sky filled with the glow of stars that, somewhere else in Manhattan or maybe in Queens or the Bronx, also shone on Peter, giving him light during his nightly escapades. For all she knew, he could have been crouched behind a serial killer, but that thought didn't cross her mind until after the third ring sounded in her ear, and just as she pulled the phone back from her face to end the call, the ringing stopped and was replaced with the muffled sound of wind. It was then that the words came spilling out as though she had written them down and prepared them. Which she supposed she kind of had what with the number of times she had played through various versions of this conversation in her head. There was a moment, after the phone had been silently answered, when Gwen wondered if she would regret making this call, second guessing herself and almost hanging up without a word. But her emotions and her frustration got the best of her, and she decided that she couldn't take it anymore. Everything always seems more urgent under the cover of darkness.

But no more.

The daylight came and with it came perspective. Gwen tightened her ponytail and grabbed her bag on the way to the door.

Today she would begin to get over Peter Parker.

In those moments between grabbing breakfast and leaving the apartment, she was resolute. There was enough grief in her life already, she had tried so hard to make him understand, but obviously he wasn't ready or even intending to handle the effects of their now stagnant relationship, and she needed to begin the process of moving on. New people, new places. She had not yet tripped over the package laying outside her front door, distinguished only by three red Xs scrawled in place of a return address.


	3. Changes

_Two Weeks Later_

The night had presented only one heart rate elevating altercation so far—apparently burglars didn't like to be separated from the diamond jewelry and crystal vases they had clumsily stolen from unsuspecting high rises on the Upper West Side. They weren't even making a clean getaway, having attracted the notice of the neighborhood night guard, who'd called it in. Peter wouldn't have even considered them a threat if one of them hadn't had an unexpected streak of intelligence (or perhaps a streak of unintended luck), aiming the blade of his knife at Peter's wrist while Peter was otherwise occupied securing one of the thug-like partners in a chokehold. The burglar landed only a glancing blow of sharp metal against the intricate machinery of the web shooter, but in some twist of fate it had caused the device to clog.

The men were contained eventually, though, and Peter left them in a sticky web of shame, enjoying the slew of sloppy insults receding in the distance as each man loudly blamed the other for their current predicament. He alighted on the roof of a nearby bank and folded himself behind a stone pillar, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

_Damn_. He fiddled with the delivery mechanism, and realized that he wouldn't be able to fix it on the fly tonight. Accidents like this had been happening with increasing frequency, his technology being abused in the growing number of violent incidents he found himself in. Peter pulled out a loosened brick from the pillar and dug around the hole that it vacated for the replacement web shooter he prayed was laying behind it. He made a mental note—he really needed to stock up on parts soon.

But that meant a shipment from OsCorp...and OsCorp meant...

_**Don't** go there._

Peter pulled off his mask and rubbed the bridge of his nose in an attempt to banish the thoughts of Gwen that were brought to the surface. When he had originally been designing the web shooters, he had funded the technology through his own hard-earned savings. But once Gwen had found out about his nightly escapades and her shock and awe had worn down into a determined curiosity to understand the science of it all, she came up with a proposition. She had been deep in thought, staring at the catch and release mechanism that halted the air propulsion of the web, when she looked up at him with no small amount of determination.

"This is ridiculous, Peter. Now that I know about this, you should just order the parts and the compounds using my employee ID. All of my chemicals and tools are fully funded by OsCorp. They'll deliver straight to my employee mailbox. I can just make you a key."

Peter had just stared at her in open-mouthed shock, followed by a slow, slightly cocky, but mostly amazed smile.

"Are you, Gwen Stacy, offering to break the law to help me out?"

Her eyes widened, and her retort was marred by the slight flush in her cheeks, "Don't flatter yourself. Look, it's not as though this is some bank heist. This kind of tecnology is barely a drop in the bucket for a scientific research conglomerate like OsCorp."

But his smile was not dampened, if anything, it grew in confidence.

"You are! _You_ are offering to break the law for _me,_" he said, punctuating each word as though they were being drilled into stone.

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the smile that broke out over her features when she responded, "Okay, okay—shut it, Peter. Besides, it's not for you. It's for the good of the citizens of New York."

"It's for me. It's totally for me," he teased, grabbing her arm as she playfully pulled away, tugging her back into his arms and burying his face into her neck. Then, as it sank in how much this would help him accomplish, he pulled back to look at her, his tone uncharacteristically solemn as he thanked her.

"You have no idea how much this means to me, Gwen. I'm not sure how much longer I could have kept this up without wrecking my chances of paying for college."

She looked at him silently for a few seconds before briefly touching her lips to his cheek.

"Just stay safe, alright? And I'm happy that I can help in some way. We can't let the future of Peter Parker be ruined by the present needs of Spider-Man."

Peter was jarred from the memory by the chill in the air that had grown steadily colder as 2AM had progressed to 3. As usual, thinking of Gwen brought with it a familiar longing to see her. Especially after her words a few weeks ago, out of the blue, painful in how perfect they were. Hanging up on her was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. He was finding it harder and harder to come up with excuses for why it was better this way. But then, something dangerous would happen and it would steel his resolve to stay away.

He hadn't expected the change in her, however. Something was off, he could tell. After the phone call, Gwen seemed to grow steadily more distracted—smart as ever, but answering questions voluntarily in class less. She had taken to staring at her notebook and scribbling, even when the teacher wasn't lecturing. And her routines had begun to change as well. Before now, Peter knew her patterns—that she went to OsCorp after school on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, and for the entire day every other Saturday. Being with her had apprised him of her favorite coffee shops, jogging routes, even which subway routes she was likely to be on. And, as a scientist, Gwen thrived on a healthy dose of routine. So, it was with growing concern that he didn't see her sipping her hot chocolate at her back table in the corner as he casually walked by her favorite café, or when he almost ran into her at the library, assuming that the coast would be clear because she should have been on the E-train taking her brother to his tutoring session. He had only barely managed to avoid a confrontation that day.

In addition, Peter had come closer and closer to being caught while he was covertly checking up on her during his rounds late at night, and if her desk had been positioned to face the window in her bedroom, he almost positively would have been by now. Gwen had been staying up much later than she normally did, a stack of books a mile high sitting next to her laptop. He noticed that she looked more and more tired during the day at school and that she seemed to be having more trouble keeping up with her work, conceivably for the first time ever in her life.

He and everyone else knew that it had to be a reaction to the stress of her father's death and taking care of her mother and brothers and a million other things. Only Peter knew that on top of that, she was dealing with her frustration towards himself and their complicated relationship, as well. Of course Gwen would throw herself into her work obsessively and push herself even harder to be perfect for each and everyone around her. It was just hard to watch the changes that she was going through and not want to be there with her. Helping her. The idea that she was going places he was unaware of and meeting people that he would never meet, winning them over with her sharp wit and her genuine caring personality, especially some guy that would possibly—the thought squeezed into his mind, unwelcome—replace him in her life...well, it made him feel ill.

Almost without realizing he was doing it, and because the night was gearing up to be a quiet one, he pulled his mask back on and swung in the direction of her apartment building.

At this point, he could probably navigate to Gwen's place from any point in New York and its outlying districts with more confidence than he could his own home.

He convinced himself that it was just because he wanted to make sure she was safe. On the other hand, the fact that he then spent the majority of that time sitting on her fire escape imagining the laughter he would have provoked by telling her about the stupid blunder he had made in his organic chemistry lab that day, wanting to show her the picture he took in Central Park last week at just the opportune moment to catch a dog stealing some man's ice cream, or, occasionally, thinking about all of the ways he could get her alone and what they could be doing once they were...well, he didn't dwell on the implications of that.

As usual, Peter landed softly on the roof of her apartment building before climbing slowly down the concrete outer wall to her floor. And, as usual, he was extra careful not to jar the creaky gutter pipe that ran parallel to the fire escape as he climbed over it. He edged closer to the window as he normally did, just enough that he could take a peek around the trim and take in her sleeping form in the bed, sometimes curled in on herself, occasionally with a leg or an arm thrown wide out of the covers. After reassuring himself of her safety, he would settle into his customary spot to the right of the window, staring out at the city and waiting for the earpiece in his ear to crackle to life with the sound of some emergency or other.

But tonight he never got that far. Because tonight her bed was empty.


	4. City Hall

The panic started to set in. Peter's mind was churning—trying to come to terms with this new information. As quickly as he could, he scrambled around the corner of the building, his grip tenuous, almost slipping once or twice due to his lack of focus. Through the drapes he could make out a shape that indicated that Gwen's mother was in bed sleeping. And her brothers? Check. Check. Check. Everyone accounted for except Gwen herself. He scrambled back around to her window, hoping that he would find her crawling back into bed, having just left her room to grab a glass of water or an extra blanket. But after ten increasingly frustrating minutes of waiting, there was still no sign of her.

He wrestled with his suit, extracating his phone and punching in her number on speed dial.

_Screw the rules_, he thought, _As long as she answers I'll know she's okay. Then, if everything is alright, I can apologize profusely and just hang up. She might be livid with me, but it will be worth it._

But even that idea failed. A spark of desperation and anxiety shot through him when he heard the familiar strains of Gwen's voice chanting one of her familiar quirky voicemail messages. It must not have occurred to her to change it in the wake of all that had happened in the last couple of months.

"This is Gwen's phone. I'm probably up to my elbows in something messy and scientific and possibly radioactive right now, so please leave a message. I'm just kidding, Mom. No radioactivity involved, I promise. Not until I'm at least 18. Kidding again. Oh, and if it's you, Peter, which it probably is, hang up the phone and get back to writing your paper. Distracting yourself is not helping. No really, I can practically hear you trying to argue with me and pursuade me that we could just talk for a few minutes. Well, it's never _just a few minutes_, Peter, and you know that you need to...BEEP."

Peter almost smiled despite himself. Gwen had never quite grasped the fact that messages had a time limit and weren't actually meant to be entire babbling monologues. And this one was leaving an ache in the pit of his stomach as it took him back to a time in which the whole Spider-Man thing seemed moderately under control and the second biggest problem he had to worry about was a history essay assigned by a teacher who felt that all high school papers about post-colonial America should rival the length of _War and Peace_. He longed for that time, now.

Peter took a deep breath. Something about listening to the message had grounded him. He had to calm down and think this through. Maybe Gwen just went out for the night with friends. No, a night on the town didn't sound like her. And he had met Gwen's mom. Mrs. Stacy would never had allowed Gwen to be out even moderately late, and if Gwen hadn't arrived home by 3 in the morning, there is no way her mother would be sleeping. If she was anything like his own Aunt May, she would be wearing a hole into the kitchen floor directly proportional to the length of her pacing and harassing the police, fire department, and/or Federal Bureau of Investigation for the twentieth time at a pitch unintelligible to the human auditory cortex.

Okay, so maybe her mother was aware, then. Maybe Gwen just went to a friend's house to spend the night—to study or just hang out or whatever it is that girls do on nights like that. But that didn't seem likely either.

It wasn't that Gwen wasn't popular, because she was. Everyone at Midtown Science knew her and he couldn't think of a single person, student or teacher alike, who didn't at least think of her with respect and at least mild fondness. But he knew how close she was to her family and how little time she actually had to get to know people her age outside of classes, her internship, and tutoring. It was a wonder she had even made time for him within her insane schedule. So a sleepover just didn't seem likely. It was a possibility, though, and if he could just flip open the planner lying on her desk, then he would know for sure. He knew it was probably a violation of her privacy—or something equally restraining-order-inducing—but she was meticulous with her schedule so as not to drop the ball on any of her responsibilities. If she had planned to be somewhere tonight, it would probably be in there.

With her father's occupation being what it had been, Peter was sure the lock on her window would be extremely difficult, if not impossible, to break into. However, he was pretty good with mechanics, and he had studied up on lock-picking to enable Spider-Man to be even more stealthy than he already was (and, if he were completely honest, because the idea of being able to pick locks was just really cool, in general), so... there was a slight chance. Peter began to to examine the seals around her window, when the glass panel unexpectedly gave way under the light pressure of his hands, sliding open easily, and the heat and faint scent of Gwen's perfume that permeated her room began to mix with the crisp, vaguely smoggy night air.

Once his surprise wore off, Peter's first thought was that he was going to have to have a word with Gwen about locking her window, for her family's sake as well as her own. He didn't know how he was going to explain his knowledge of her carelessness, but he'd think of something. On instinct, he began to climb into her bedroom, but then he hesitated and froze, shaking his head energetically back and forth in time with his thoughts.

_No. No, no, no. Don't do it. You're overreacting._

He forced himself back out onto the fire escape, closing her window silently, turning away, and leaning back against it.

G_wen would hate this. I'm not going to be that guy. She's fine. She's just living a life without you._

But the urge to check was still there.

Peter was deep in his own indecision when the sudden crackle of the police scanner coming to life caused him to uncharacteristically jump. Relieved to have something tangible to focus his energy on and keep him from doing something stupid and invasive in Gwen's life, Peter swung out and away from the temptation of her open window towards City Hall, where there had been a tip off of a potentially suspicious figure lurking. He could quickly diffuse the situation (which likely wasn't even a "situation" at all considering all of the squatters and homeless around the city) and come back with a clearer head. Or even better, stay away until morning when he was sure Gwen would have returned to spend a lazy Saturday watching TV with her brothers and helping her mother do the laundry.

As he neared the building, Peter swung low, dropping down onto an adjacent rooftop and checking that the coast was clear before moving further. He aimed two strings of web at the high dome that formed the pinnacle of the rooftop architecture, used both as a bridge to crawl across to the convex structure, and dropped down onto the window washer's ledge. This wasn't his first experience with City Hall, and he quickly jimmied the lock of the custodial door nearby, slipping inside. Crawling across the walls, Peter allowed his eyes to adjust to the blank darkness and began a quick survey of the hallways and offices. He had almost made it down to the bottom floor and called the anonymous tip a fluke, but as he rounded a corner in the archival wing, he spotted a sliver of light flashing from the gap underneath a doorway. Feeling the usual rush of adrenaline that came with the uncertainty of a new danger, Peter silently advanced toward the door, which was slightly cracked with quiet, but distinct, noises coming from within.

_Checkmate_, Peter thought. He listened for a few more seconds—it sounded as if the criminal was alone and fairly amateur, if the gentle scuffs of his shoes across the floor as he walked were anything to go by. Locating the main hallway vent, Peter smoothly climbed in and maneuvered his way through the ductwork to the grate that overlooked the breached records room, and peered down to scrutinize the intruder. The room was dark with the exception of the eerie blue glow of a single computer screen and the faint, circular yellow light of a flashlight that had been turned on its head to dull its brightness. The outline of a slight figure dressed in dark colors and hunched over a computer emerged through the shadows, clicking and dragging various files to what Peter presumed had to be some sort of flash or external hard drive. Peter estimated that it was only a matter of minutes before the police would arrive; therefore, he had the luxury of deciding whether or not to apprehend the hacker himself or sit back (figuratively, as it was technically impossible to do so from his vantage point on the ceiling) and watch the action go down. But something tugged at him—from the size of this guy he was likely some young hacker who's ego had gotten hold of him, who thought he could gain a little power or edge over the metaphorical bad guy by using his wits and a little raw talent.

Not that Peter had any experience with that himself.

If he could just scare the guy a little, lightly rough him up and talk him around, it would probably be just the sort of deterrent that could set him on the right path. It was decided, then. Spider-Man would handle this one personally. He crawled out of the grate and forward on the ceiling until he was just above the delinquent in question.

It looked as though the lanky kid had gotten what he wanted, because he began shutting folders, straightening chairs, and pulling the drive from the computer. As he turned to make his exit, Peter released his grip on the ceiling tile, landing squarely in front of him with a flippant, "Do not pass Go, do not collect $200."

The startled hacker gave a yell, careening backwards and falling to the floor with a muffled grunt of pain. Peter took in the unexpectedly high pitch of these sounds.

_Aw geez, this guy sounds really young—his voice hasn't even finished changing. Major props for somehow managing to get into a government building. He'll be bragging about this one to his friends for the rest of his life, I'll bet._

"Would you care to share with the class what exactly is _so_ important that you couldn't go through traditional means to acquire it? I mean, I know the government has a reputation for being painfully slow and uncooperative, but there are information desks during business hours that I am sure are sufficient for any needs that you could possibly have," Peter drawled.

The figure scrambled up, but didn't say a word, head down and hat concealing his face, backing away slowly with hands held in front of him, as though begging Peter to let him go.

_Not a chance._

Peter continued, loudly. He enjoyed the showmanship part of being Spider-Man almost as much as the exacting justice part of the deal, "No? I can only assume, then, that what you are holding in your hand, you aren't actually supposed to have."

The figure mumbled unintelligibly, shaking his head, still firmly trying to hide his identity, as though it weren't inevitable that Peter would find out momentarily. He could see the kid shaking slightly.

Peter's compassion won over, and he eased back a little. The time for reasoning was now.

He sighed, "Look, I bet you don't mean anything by it, but this, what you're doing, is only going to cause you trouble down the road. There are better ways to get what you want in life. I promise. But you're going to have to come clean. Right now. Show your face. Let me see that you mean it when you tell me that you are sorry for what you have done and that things are going to change, or I will have no choice but to make sure that you are still here when the police come. Which, by my calculations, will occur in about two minutes...give or take thirty seconds. I assure you that they won't ask as nicely."

But the kid was stubborn, continuing to back away silently. So this was how it was going to be.

"Come on, kid. Don't let it go down this way. I just want to talk," Peter said, as he advanced on him. Eventually, the kid collided with a wall, head still bowed, but with no place left to go. When his hands flew out to steady himself from the impact, Peter shot a web at each wrist, binding him to the wall, before reaching down to grab the brim of his hat and lift it off of his head. Before he could manage it, however, the hacker finally spoke.

"No! Peter, don't. Please."

He didn't know if it was the shock of hearing his real name or the familiarity of the voice, but his stomach felt as though it had dropped to his toes and his face beneath the mask must have been comical in his confusion and disbelief.

He ripped the hat off, and familiar bright blonde hair tumbled down, though it remained sweaty and stuck to her forehead where the cap had been.

And though Peter's brain was usually a source of pride for him, at the current moment it would have struggled to process his own name, and he blurted out the only thing that came to mind.

"Gwen?! What the...?"

He heard the first muffled shouts of police entering the building.


	5. The Terms

A/N: This story has...gotten longer than I expected. What began as a cathartic monologue about Gwen's frustration with Peter's stubbornness in the wake of his promise has developed a full-fledged plot line and growing characterization.

Thank you so much if you have taken the time to review! If you haven't, no worries – just enjoy reading. However, reminders like that have kept my mind on the story and my confidence up, and I appreciate every kind word said about it.

* * *

This is exactly what she had been hoping to avoid.

How is it that people who barely possess an elementary level education can manage to get away with cold-blooded murders and she, on track to complete a PhD two years earlier than the average student, can't even pull a few digital copies of old microfiche from a government building without getting ensnared by her superhero, vigilante kind-of-boyfriend...with webbing that _she_ helped him procure?

Is there any justice in this world?

And on a more superficial level, she was just starting to move on with her life and focus on other things. Granted, perhaps not in the way most people, especially Peter, would recommend, as evidenced by her mildly illegal presence in the city's corporate archives. But that's neither here nor there at this point.

Peter's head whipped towards the doorway, and, though Gwen couldn't hear anything, she remembered him mentioning that the police would be here any minute.

She can see the headlines now: _'Daughter of slain policeman rebels in his absence' _or_ 'Servicemen may save lives, but they neglect family values,' w_hich would surely make her mother...oh, God, her mother. Gwen couldn't even imagine how shocked, disappointed, and mortified she would be on top of her already intense grief and the pressures of being a newly single parent of four. And Gwen was pretty sure that college programs and internships weren't rushing to accept potential applicants with recent criminal records.

But then Peter (or should she say Spider-Man) looked back at her, posture stiff, before crouching down in front of her and scrabbling at the globs of web that were trapping her wrists to the wall, cursing slightly when they proved gummy and difficult to remove.

His voice came through his mask in grunts, slightly muffled, and it sounded as if he were talking through his teeth, "I never...imagined a scenario...in which I would need to get these off...quickly before. I think I may need to reconsider...my level of respect for our city's...janitorial services."

Gwen stared at him.

That. That right there was her problem. Because, despite her current predicament, despite her exhaustion over what has already occurred that evening and her dread over what is to come, she felt uninvited laughter bubbling up, a rush of relief, and an affection for him so strong that it was like the last two months had never happened.

_Damn him._

This Peter, the one in front of her right now, is the one who cares, the one who jokes around and touches her gently and makes inappropriate, sarcastic comments under his breath at inopportune times just to get a rise out her her. The one with a mind wound tight like a coil, sharp as a knife and ready to dive into fifty projects and theories at the same time. Not the one she had seen for the last few weeks—mild, distant, and ambivalent enough to make her skin crawl. Not the one who hangs up on her after she makes foolish declarations and takes pains to make sure she sees no more of him than a brief flash out of the corner of her eye. Suddenly, she felt an overwhelming urge to either cry or grab onto him so tight he couldn't breathe—any kind of emotional outlet that would let her purge some of the stress she was feeling. Thankfully, she wouldn't let herself act on the former and _couldn't_ physically accomplish the latter.

But this apparent weakness fueled some anger, and Gwen settled for letting out some of her feelings by struggling against the bonds as they started to give way. After much effort, her left hand was finally released from the wall, and she reached over to speed up the process on the right. The noises in the hall grew steadily louder as she and Peter worked diligently at the silicone-based material. His nearness and the rush of adrenaline in her veins were becoming oppressive (apparently she was not cut out for a life of delinquency), and Gwen began to feel an unexplained desperation to get away, not just from the oncoming police or from punishment, but from Peter himself—from his familiar quirky intelligence, from Spider-Man, and from a complicated relationship that she doesn't want to deal with right now.

She has enough on her plate.

Finally, she was liberated from the adhesive, and Gwen frantically analyzed the room for her best exit route. She decided that the back door through the file closet was the least conspicuous, and took a few steps in that direction, when a hand snaked around her waist, yanking her back and preventing her from moving. Gwen looked back in confusion and irritation at the red and blue figure dimly visible through the darkness. The police could come in any second. What was he doing?

"Look, Gwen, I don't know what you are doing here, but if I let you go then you have to tell me what's going on."

How had her brain managed to hold on to any hope that he would simply let this go? Just earlier this week she had longed to tell him all about the boxes she had been receiving. Imagined so many scenarios in which she could let some of the weight off of her own shoulders...admit that she was in over her head, but that she felt some overpowering desire for justice both for her father and for the many other deaths that had been covered up and shoved under the rug in recent years. But the whole scenario had sounded too much like some sort of weird plot that she had devised to manipulate him into paying attention to her. And if there was one thing Gwen was not, it was needy. That, in conjunction with her anger, frustration, and exhaustion, had convinced her not to seek Peter out. But now that he was standing in front of her literally asking about it, she was reluctant to let him in.

Her silence must have stretched on for too long, because Peter grew tense, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder and stubbornly repeating his request with a not-so-gentle shake.

"I mean it, Gwen. You have to tell me what this is about. Everything. Promise me," he ground out.

She saw no other way out. She nodded with a barely intelligible murmur.

"Okay."

Abruptly, he released her, shoving her into the file closet with a quick stream of orders, "I'll take care of the feds. Go to the right when you get into hallway, all the way through the Patent Office to the double doors on the side of the building. Once you're outside, cut left on Chambers Street until you hit Broadway. Get a taxi home. I will meet you there as soon as I can and then we are going to have a lengthy discussion about your new recreational activities." Gwen bit back a sigh and darted forward into the darkness, following the path he had lain out. She thought she had finally left him behind when she pushed her way through the door engraved 'US Patent and Trademark Office of the Public', when his whisper came from startlingly close above her head. She gasped.

"Oh, and don't forget to lock your window."

Once her heart had stopped pounding out of her chest, the indignant thoughts that used to make their way to the forefront of her mind whenever he was being particularly stubborn or ridiculous began to make a re-appearance.

_You're going to have a talk with **me**, Peter? Well, I'm going to have a talk with you about personal space and...and...other general creepiness._

But secretly she was thankful that he was looking out for her, though his methods could use a little work. With his help, her journey home was actually less harrowing than her arrival earlier that night. She had walked, high strung and aware of the dangers of a young woman alone at night, fourteen blocks in the shadows to avoid being remembered by a taxi driver or fellow rider on the subway.

Her gait betrayed her exhaustion and dwindling adrenaline rush as she slowly and methodically made her way up the fire escape to her floor, careful not to jar the metal into making any alarming noises. It was with great weariness and appreciation for the 'boring' life she normally lead that she climbed back through the window. Once inside, she debated about leaving it unlocked in a self-righteous act of rebellion, Peter's last words still ringing in her head.

_How could he have known about the window? Was he checking up on her?_

Being the conscientious person that she was, though, prudence won out over pride. With an audible slide and click, she barred out the night air.

With a glance at the clock showing her that it was nearing 4:45am, she knew she had one more task to perform before she could finally rest. She tiptoed around her house, checking to make sure that each of her family members were sleeping uninterrupted, before heading down to the front hall and unlatching the front door.

With a deep breath, she pulled it open and glanced around her front entryway.

Nothing.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she righted the lock and climbed back up the stairs, falling into a restless sleep the moment she hit the pillow.

If Peter wanted to talk to her so bad, he could just wait until she woke up.


	6. The Visit

A/N: I'm happy to say that in between the last chapter and this one some major plotting and planning took place behind the scenes (which also partially accounts for the long update time). Some general things that I had outlined have become more specific and future decisions have been made. Unfortunately, that is going to push out the timeline a little bit in order to accommodate some extra material, but I think it will be worth it in the long run. Hopefully you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

When Gwen woke up, the bright afternoon sun was streaming through her lace curtains, leaving patterns over her skin and on the walls of her room. Her head felt foggy and her back ached. She stretched and swung her feet out of the covers only to realize that she still had a full set of clothes on, including shoes, and that her coat had somehow managed to get caught underneath her, effectively cutting off the circulation to her right arm. She shifted with a groan, pulling the trapped material out from under her waist, loosening the tension of the fabric across her tingling limb and flexing her fist to get the blood flow traveling back towards her fingers.

With the return of feeling into her hand came a sudden awareness of the events of the previous night, and Gwen sighed at the memory of all that had transpired.

What was she going to do? And more importantly, _how much was she going to tell Peter?_

Peter.

Gwen glanced up at the clock, unhappy but unsurprised to find that it was pushing one in the afternoon. It made her doubly glad that she had planned last night's escapade in advance, specifically choosing a Saturday in which her mom and brothers would have to leave early to get to their respective all-day activities. An uncharacteristic bout of sleeping-in would go unnoticed.

For all her bravado last night about making Peter wait for their talk, she had fully expected to be jarred awake by her phone vibrating or by a tap on the window long before she had even gotten what could qualify as a nap, much less before she woke up naturally.

She looked around her room. Nothing was awry. There was no indication that he had been there. Flexing her aching muscles, which were sore from the previous night's roller-coaster of anxiety, she eased her way over to the window and looked out over the ledge.

Sunlight glinted off of the bare metal of the fire escape, forcing Gwen to squint her eyes into focus. It was empty.

She checked her phone next. The only notification she had was a text from a student she was tutoring, asking for the next week off. Making a note to deal with that later, Gwen pressed the lock button on her phone and set it back down on her bedside table. By all accounts, she should be glad of the unexpected reprieve from a tense and unwanted conversation, but instead a vein of uneasiness began to creep into her thoughts.

_What if Peter had gotten caught by the police that were waiting for her? Was he sitting in a jail cell somewhere trying to explain how it was possible that a spider bite could have given him the ability to scale walls?_

_Actually, let's be honest_, thought Gwen sarcastically,_ if Peter was in prison he was definitely making all of the doughnut jokes he could possibly recall from his, admittedly substantial, repertoire. And maybe a few puns for good measure. _Which didn't make her feel much better. She sighed. Why does he always have to push buttons wherever he goes?

No. She was overthinking this. Peter was probably just going about his life, completely oblivious to the fact that he had Gwen's thoughts tied up in knots so complicated that a boy scout would have trouble getting them undone.

She sat down hard on her bed, instinctively shoving her hands into the pockets of her coat, and they brushed against the smooth plastic of the encrypted flash drive buried at the bottom. She pulled it out, examining the surface as though it was a crystal ball and could somehow tell her where Peter was and what he was doing.

When no answers were forthcoming, she shoved it back into her pocket and forced herself to go make breakfast (or, she supposed, lunch) as a distraction. She knew she hadn't eaten in almost—wow, was it really eighteen hours?—and that she should be ravenous, but the idea of food just made her feel slightly queasy. Still, she forced herself to eat a bowl of soup and a small sandwich and, after that was finished, had to admit that she felt better. More solid and less like she could blow over at the hint of a breeze or wake up and find that she had been dreaming the past two weeks of her life. She felt stronger.

Okay. What did she always do when she had a problem? She confronted it. Broke it down into manageable pieces that she could then complete and check off of a list. Then, logically, once the list was done, she would have reached her goal. So many things in her life, all of her school successes and her future career goals had been planned and implemented using this tried-and-true method. Why should this situation be any different?

One. In order to move on, Gwen was going to have to get Peter off of her mind, which meant that she needed to find him and make sure that he was safe. If she had to have that tough conversation with him, then so be it. Either way, she would never be at ease and able focus on other things if this confrontation didn't occur. And today was the perfect time. She had the rest of the day free and more than a little motivation to find him. Gwen shook her head in a vain attempt to clear up some of the fog remaining from the disruption of her usual sleep schedule, and strode back upstairs to change into a clean set of clothes and freshen up as much as she could under the circumstances before heading towards Queens.

* * *

When Peter's Aunt May answered the door, she seemed surprised to see Gwen standing on the other side.

"Oh my. Gracious, dear! Peter never said anything about having visitors today—I had no idea," she self-consciously shuffled some stray mail into a pile and fluffed the pillows on the couch as she led Gwen into the tiny living room. Gwen was just about to respond that there was no need to make any fuss, when she spotted an unfamiliar man sitting at the kitchen table, with hair a sandy grey color and eyes as light green as they were kind. He gave a small wave of acknowledgement to Gwen, which she shyly returned.

Heedless of the exchange, Aunt May continued bustling around the small, mildly cluttered space, scarcely pausing to take breaths, "...let Peter know that you're here, but I have to warn you that he didn't, um...didn't get a good night's sleep last night so he may not be feeling up to any visits. He's a bit under the weather. I was just about to head upstairs, actually, and make him take his temperature. While you wait, would you like a cup of...Oh!," she said, spotting the gentleman, "Look at me, forgetting my introductions. Gwen, this is Jay, my...well, my...," her eyes darted back and forth as though the proper word might be found taped to one of the kitchen appliances, until she finally settled with, "...my good friend." Jay's eyes lit up with amusement at this conclusion, but he said nothing.

May pressed on, "Jay, this is Gwen Stacy, Peter's...erm...Peter's...," her stream of words fizzled out and with it her energy. She was left standing completely still in the cozy kitchen, looking completely mortified.

Gwen hurried to fill the vacant space.

"His friend," she blurted to fill the silence, the term tumbling from her lips as awkwardly as it had May's just moments before, and she suspected that Jay had caught on to the hidden implications of that statement. His eyes sparkled even brighter as he stood to give her hand a shake.

"The name's actually John Jonah Jameson, Sr., but, as May said, you can just call me Jay—everyone does, to the distaste of my oh-so-vaunted son—he's a bit of a tightwad, but don't tell him I said that." His words may have sounded harsh, but Gwen could see pride underneath the gentle ribbing.

He continued thoughtfully, "Hmm...Stacy...now, forgive me for prying, but that is a name that has been circulating around town recently. My son has mentioned it a fair few times. He writes for the _Daily Bugle_, and he recently published several articles surrounding the tragic death of a Captain Stacy with the NYPD. Did you know him?"

Even after two months, answering that question hadn't gotten any easier. Gwen didn't know why it was so hard to say the words when her mind spent every spare minute reminding her of the fact, but something about letting the syllables out into the open air, knowing that others knew, made her loss come into startling clarity, as if everyone around her began moving in slow motion, too scared to make any sudden movements for fear that it would cause her to burst into tears. Which, ironically, only made the threat of tears more probable.

"He was my father," was the short and sweet response that she gave. Jay's face didn't alter, as if he had already suspected her answer, but his eyes looked her over with compassion.

"I'm very sorry to hear that. Much too young."

The last statement was spoken almost as an afterthought. Gwen wasn't sure if he meant her father, or her, or both, but unlike so many others, Jay's gaze was deep and genuine, and his calm presence kept her at ease. She thanked him with sincerity.

In the moment of silence following that train of thought, Aunt May moved to head up the stairs, "Let me go check on that boy of mine."

Gwen started to protest that it wasn't necessary—that Peter should rest, that she could come back at a later time or just see him around school. After all, her only reason for coming was to make sure that he was okay, and as much as she wanted, no _longed_, to truly be a part of Peter's life again, she knew that it was like falling down a rabbit hole. Not seeing him was probably better for her all around. Not having to explain her activities of the previous evening was just a bonus.

She began scooting her way back towards the front door and a clean escape, when a gravelly voice called out from the top of the staircase.

"You can send her up, Aunt May." A bushy head of brown hair emerged from around a corner, and she could vaguely see dark circles under Peter's eyes through the slats of the stair rail. His body was not forthcoming, and his head continued to appear disembodied, peering at Gwen expectantly. His aunt cringed and looked at him nervously.

"Peter, are you _sure_ you feel up to this? Gwen said she understands if you aren't." Her words were just a little too emphatic to be natural, and Gwen realized that there was some subtext going on behind them.

_Oh God_, she wondered, _what if Peter had told his aunt that he didn't want to see me if I showed up at his house? Like the in-person version of screening your calls? Was she trying to give him an out?_

Gwen spluttered, "That's okay, I can just..," she motioned behind her towards the door, but neither party seemed to be paying attention to her anymore; instead they were locked in some sort of staring contest.

Sounding determined, Peter slowly stated, "It's alright, Aunt May. She can come up. Gwen _knows_ how I can be when I'm sick. You don't need to worry." Some invisible understanding passed between them, and Aunt May looked mildly surprised.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "Well. Well, I suppose it's alright then," there was an awkward pause, before her previous energy returned, "But no funny business, Peter. Keep your door open. And Gwen, if my foolish nephew tries anything, you just let me know and we'll get him straightened out." She stepped past Gwen and back into the kitchen with a wink and a squeeze to her shoulder, only sparing a brief worried glance back up at her nephew on her way out.

"I will Mrs. Parker. Thank you," she replied with a nod and a small laugh. Peter groaned playfully at his aunt's retreating figure, but then the noise morphed into something much deeper and more painful-sounding. Gwen made her way up the stairs, rapidly discerning why Peter had kept his body hidden from view. He may be safely at home, but it became apparent that he could in no way be considered 'okay'. He was in large, wrinkled sweats and a short-sleeved t-shirt, covered in cuts and bruises, with two black eyes. One arm was shoved into the sleeve of a jacket, but the rest of the material was haphazardly thrown over his back as if he couldn't manage to get the second one in and just gave up halfway through. There were bandages all over the arm that was still free. He was hunched over, favoring his left leg, wincing as he tried to keep himself standing. When he shifted painfully, Gwen thought she could see a glimpse of bright red and blue in the gap between the waistband of his pants and where his shirt had ridden up.

Gwen's eyes widened at the sight that he presented in front of her, but before she could make a comment, Peter put his fingers over her lips, shaking his head, and motioned in the direction of his bedroom. He attempted to step forward on his own, the movement causing him to hiss and recoil.

Changing tactics, he whispered close to her ear, "Help me back in there please, and then we can talk."

She didn't know where he was safe to touch, so she positioned herself next to him and let him wrap an arm around her for leverage, hesitantly snaking hers around his waist and letting him place her hand in a spot that wouldn't irritate an injury.

They hobbled together to his room as though they were in some morbid version of a three-legged race, and he eased himself back down onto his bed with a heavy sigh of relief. His face was tinged with green from the effort, and he closed his eyes, taking deep breaths that she assumed were in response to pain. Gwen glanced around the room that she had been in not even a handful of times before. Today, Peter's dresser was littered with pain pills, bandages, bottles of antiseptic, and medical tape. After adjusting several pillows so that he was reclining comfortably, Peter blatantly disregarded his aunt's earlier request, reaching over and tapping a button on his computer that caused a mechanical device to shut and lock the door.

Gwen had resolved on the way over to keep this conversation as serious and straightforward as possible. Minimal emotion. Maximum efficiency. And as she stared at him, she steeled herself to keep that promise—at least until he spoke.

"Sit?" Peter asked, motioning towards the bed beside him, "It's kind of intimidating with you standing over me like that."

Just as it always did, her mind steered away from her resolutions, instead zoning in on the illogicality of this statement. Gwen's eyebrows rose. "_I'm_ intimidating? Says the guy who fights criminals. A lot of them by the looks of it," she said, her eyes sweeping over him. But she complied with his request, gingerly seating herself on the edge of his mattress next to his hip.

"Yeah, well..." Peter's comment fizzled out, leaving them both in close quarters, staring at each other for the first time in so many weeks. Peter reached out his hand as if to touch hers, but then, apparently realizing that it might be a mistake, caught himself and withdrew it, burying it in his thick hair and giving the strands a characteristic ruffle. Suddenly, the dam broke, and their words spilled out simultaneously.

"What on earth..."

"Why were you..."

They both halted abruptly. Cursing how easily he got her distracted, Gwen took this opportunity to save face and plunged ahead before he could get another word in. If she could control this conversation, then perhaps she could control the emotions threatening to rise up in her, as well.

She launched into a tirade, hands fluttering around more and more as she gained steam, "No. I don't talk until you do. When I left you not twelve hours ago, you were fine. Peachy, even, in all of your costumed glory. And now you look like you've been put through a meat grinder. Sorry," she said as an afterthought, seeing Peter wince, "That analogy was a little more gruesome than I had intended it...in hindsight." Her voice trailed off before she regained her train of thought, but once she did, she continued with renewed fervor.

"If you think I am going to catch you up on _my_ life while you sit in front of me actively bleeding, then you have another thing coming. Now, explain."

Gwen accentuated the unnaturally assertive statement with a nod of solidarity, but, judging by Peter's gaze, he was more amused by this display than anything else.

His face held a wistful expression as he looked at her, and he let out a soft, dry chuckle, which marked the first time Gwen could remember seeing an emotion that wasn't hurt cross his face in the time since the disaster with Dr. Connors and the resulting fallout.

He sighed deeply, hesitating, "There's not much to tell, really." Then, seeing the look of annoyance on Gwen's face, he hurried to add, "No, what I mean is that there's not much that I can tell you that I wouldn't be guessing myself. What I do know for sure, though, is that...well, I think someone is trying to catch Spider-Man. Trying to catch me."

Gwen's head tilted in confusion, "But that's not news to you, right? I mean, haven't the police been trying to do that for ages now, or, well, as long as you've...he's...," she stumbled over pronouns, eventually foregoing them all together, "...Spider-Man's been around?"

"Yeah, but those are mostly just empty threats, especially now that I've been trying so hard to let them know I'm just here to help. They were more bark than bite, even before, and now I think the department's grown pretty used to me. I've even heard a few cops that were openly grateful.

"This...," Peter continued, staring out of the window absently, "This is different."

Peter sighed raggedly, "About a week and a half ago, the criminals I've encountered have gotten...how should I say this...exponentially smarter. Or luckier. Some combination of the two. At first I thought it was just a coincidence, but they all seem to know exactly what to do to wound me or take out my mechanics or cause my grip to loosen on a wall. One mugger even managed to slice clean through the polymer of my webbing. I have no idea how he did it. I know it sounds crazy, but it's like some kind of conspiracy."

Gwen could do nothing but stare at him and begin to process his words. He was looking at her earnestly.

"I mean, what are the odds? It's like probability theory has been thrown out of the window. Anyway, after you left last night, I was headed back to your place when this urgent 911 call came in, so I detoured to the Bronx. It was just some average, run-of-the-mill drug deal going down..."

Gwen rolled her eyes at his ambivalent tone. She was tempted to interrupt, but decided it wasn't worth it. She was too curious to hear the rest.

"...but once I got into the middle of it, both the dealer and the buyer turned towards me and they each had some kind of machine on their wrists. The whole thing must have been planned. They sprayed something on me, and it was instant—my limbs went completely numb," Peter's expression was pained at the memory, "I had trouble moving at all, even to trigger the release on the web shooters, so they had free reign to just wail on me, which is how I ended up in this state. I was surprised—they could have just done me in right then and there, but they kept talking about how they were going to get revenge for one of their buddies, first. I wouldn't have been able to get away at all, if the effects of whatever was in that spray hadn't started wearing off sooner than they expected. Once the jerks realized that I was able to move again, they got freaked and ran away. I tried to chase them down, and I almost nabbed the slower guy, but I tripped over my own feet. Let's just say it was a long, slow process getting back home."

Gwen wished she could think of something, anything, to say, but she was torn. The scientist in her wanted to analyze and quantify: ask for every small detail of the encounter, hypothesize, and even take a blood sample to see if she could isolate whatever chemical had been used against him. The girlfriend in her wanted to check him over, categorize his injuries, treat what she could, and then get him proper medical attention. And a less benevolent part of her wanted nothing more than to yell at him, take out her aggressions at his recklessness, his hero complex, his infuriating attitude towards her since he made the stupid promise to her father to keep her safe, his inability to stay safe in turn, and, most selfishly, the way in which he seemed to be so unaffected by her presence in his room after all this time.

So she said nothing, staring at her hands in her lap as she weighed her options. Surprisingly, what fell out of her mouth was a completely unrelated observation.

"Your aunt...she...when we were out there earlier, and you were talking, she...seemed to know. That you're Spider-Man."

Peter seemed thrown, as if that was the last thing he had expected Gwen to say, and he appeared to reorient himself to the change in topic, but then he nodded.

"She figured it out. After the whole Connors thing, she... noticed," he said, and Gwen figured that that must be the biggest understatement in the history of understatements.

"I think I scared her so much when I came crawling in this morning that she might put me back into this state herself once I've healed from it," he smirked.

"I can understand where she would be coming from," Gwen said, quietly, with a small smile.

Peter suddenly looked more serious than he ever had before, his expression mildly abashed.

"I'm sure you could," he acknowledged, voice low.

Silence fell, but this time it wasn't awkward, and, as they looked at each other, a wave of something passed between them. Gwen suddenly felt more comfortable knowing that Peter was aware of at least part of her feelings. That he knew that everything was not okay between them. Surprisingly and somewhat contradictorily, that knowledge freed her to act a little on her desire to care for him physically. She reached over to the dresser to grab supplies, and began changing out bandages that he had bled through. He watched her work, body tense at this sudden change in her, and she fully expected him to comment on it or question her, but he didn't, instead keeping to the matter at hand.

"Alright, Gwen," he said, stilling the hand currently peeling at the medical tape on his torso. She looked up at his stubborn expression, and she knew the time had come.

"I explained. Now it's your turn."


End file.
